I'm revved up to attend PulpFest 2012 in Columbus, Ohio this weekend. I'm really interested in connecting with the pulp magazine collecting community. As a genre fiction enthusiast / aspiring writer / scholar, I often take for granted the real material origins of the genres we take for granted. I have to remind myself that science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror didn't emerge, fully formed, from our culture like night mushrooms. They slowly but surely evolved out of many different contexts, one of the major ones (dare I say *the* major one) being American pulpwood magazines.
Sure, sure: modern supernatural fiction or "weird literature" can be linked to the British Gothic novel; science fiction can be connected to the science romances of H.G. Wells and Jules Verne; modern fantasy can be said to be fully founded or at least fully outlined by J.R.R. Tolkien. The British Isles can claim, indeed, to be a major "ur" location for the supernatural genres we love. And yet--something happened to these genres when they were "percolated" through the pulp magazines. The American pulp writers drew from this old world traditions and began to add to them, to change them.
In comparison to H.G. Wells, Mary Shelley, and J.R.R. Tolkien, I offer Edgar Rice Burroughs, H.P. Lovecraft, and Robert E. Howard. Generally speaking, all of these writers--all six of them--have mass appeal. Their work--which the clever genre historian has firmly situated within the history of the modern supernatural genres (the "weird" genres, as I like to call them)--was read and continues to be read by a lot of people. But there are characteristics that flag Burroughs, Lovecraft, and Howard as being in distinct camps from Wells, Shelley, and Tolkien: distinct shifts in tone, content, character, style, narrative structure, etc.. It just may (just *may*) be useful to attempt to map these shifts along national grounds. Hmm... A major project.
A distinct characteristic, I'm thinking, inherent in the pulp versions of science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror is the presence of, simply, a lot of geographical space. In Burroughs Mars stories, for example, you have Barsoom, a new world to explore and discover, to fight in and conquer, to organize. In Howard, you have the great vistas of Hyborian Age--all the many kingdoms, cities, dread ruins, and wilderness expances plumb, explore, conquer, organize. In Lovecraft, nothing less than the entire cosmos are unflung for the characters to experience, meditate on, and finally recoil from.
This is just a start, a tentative "toe-dip" along this line of thought. But it may be a fruitful road, I'm convinced: a major distinction between pulp versions of genre and their corresponding British representatives, it seems to me, is something as simple as space, more space: in the pulps the narratives are set against a lot of room for the characters to move around in, to adventure in. Hmm...
Showing posts with label pulp fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pulp fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 26)
In any case, here is serial 26 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
The Rogue spoke on. He told of how he had deceived the first of the folk he had encountered with a self-inflicted wound and his acting skills and he asked that, when they all arrived to the strange village, they would restrain themselves and refrain from misrepresenting him to the people of the village. He spoke more of the villagers, emphasizing the taboo their leader, the greybeard, had voiced to him: the black-brick ruins that lingered above and beyond the village were sacrosanct. None should approach them.
After summarizing his experiences, it was well into the night, and the Rogue was eager to break away in order to make sure the four warriors from the village were still waiting. The merchants did not want him to leave--all were craven, except for Brol, whose closeness to death and fierceness in battle had stirred some courage in him: "Let him go, you cowardly fools! If those red monsters return, we know the truth now! The demonlings are cowards, nothing more! An old merchant with a quick temper routed them, and it cost but an eye! Cut one of their numbers down, and they'll fly away, screaming like little, frightened children!" He ended his speech with a rasping cough and wiped greenish-red blood from his chapped lips. He needed healing, indeed, thought the Rogue.
Before leaving the Rogue helped Rew and Tauos coordinate the packing up of the camp, and he ordered the still-panicked Paj--in spite of his mental state--to tend to the ailing Brol. The merchant assented quickly, nodded humbly. The Rogue thought it strange when he reflected on how he was, by the law of their homeland Stoh, their property, their servant, their slave; and yet, they responded to his orders now as if he was their master. Helping Brol seemed to level Paj. He helped his leader carefully and deliberately. He dabbed his forehead with a rag, wrung water into his dry mouth.
In any case, the ten remaining merchants--except for Brol and Paj--were busy organizing their departure when the Rogue left them to meet up with the five warriors.
He found them lounging just outside of the hillock upon which the merchants were bivouacked. He used as many non-verbal cues as he could muster to tell the old greybeard's son--the son who wore the wolf-cloak--that they, the merchants--had been informed and were coming back to the village with them. He was eager to discuss the demonlings with the villager-warriors, who he thought might have encountered them before--but their lack of a common language frustrated his curiosity. After he confirmed the warriors knew what was happening, he left him, returning to the merchants. They were finishing packing their horses, tying their parcels and belongings to their saddle. Rew was dousing the fire coals when the warriors and the Rogue strode into the camp's light.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 23)
***
He wasn't believed by his comrades, for Paj--very unfortunately--was known among them as being overly superstitious, a religious zealot, and a "jumper-at-shadows". In spite of his vehement ravings, Brol, Tauos, and Rew--who were in spirit the leaders of the caravan--disregarded him. They demanded that he sleep off whatever lunacy the night fog had inspired in him.
They were concerned, however, when Paj pointed out that the one of them, the youngest--his name was Munish--was missing. Brol, Tauos, and Rew, after a quick search of the camp, could not deny this. The young ones were indeed missing. And so they called everyone together, threw stones, and, in this way, enlisted the help of two of the younger merchants, Theis and Farard. They would go out and search for Munish, but they weren't to go out very far. If they could not found the boy, then they were to return to the camp and to call for help if they needed it. They gave them short-blades of Tabunian make and had them march into the darkness looking for their lost comrade.
"It was directly after this that we knew something was wrong, that Paj had been speaking something of the truth about a horror out there in the darkness--though we thought it more likely an animal at this point," said Tauos. He tugged nervously on his long, thin, tightly braided beard.
After Theis and Farard left, bearing trembling blades, it was not long before they heard them gargle screams and their moans began emanating from the fog. Screams and moans became gurgles and then hacking and then became screams again--a perpetual, staccato of hoarse howls. This horrible orchestra of death sounds seeped into the entire camp, and so all of the merchants--the ten who remained--issued from their tents to stand, eyes wide with horror, gazing into the fog, muttering questions to themselves and wringing their hands as the screams went on. None could tell what had happened but all were frightened.
Brol was the only one who shook off his fear and began to organize them. He commanded them to arm themselves, although the two blades they had given to Theis and Farard were their only swords. They had daggers and skinning knives and two bows and some arrows, but no swords. He ordered others to secure the horses, who were, by this point, neighing as loudly as Theis and Farard were screaming in the fog. And they were kicking and stamping and going crazy and threatening to break their reins. After a few moments, when the horses were settled, the moans of pain and screams ceased. Silence lay about the camp.
Brol whispered orders to the merchants. He had them bear torches and to circle themselves around the central fire of their camp, where there was the most light. Something deep within him stirred and he knew an attack was inevitable. And he was right.
Swooping out of the fog were dozens of those read beasts, tongues waggling, monstrous grins on their toothy faces, their many-knuckled fingers dancing with delight. They raked over the merchants with long claws dripping tar, and they cackled evilly: a shrill, razorish laughter.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
The Best of Weird Tales in 1923: "The Basket" by Herbert J. Mangham
Some summary: it's about a guy who stays at a boarding house who is extremely indeterminate. He doesn't tell anyone anything about who he is. He isn't very unique in terms of his physical appearances. And, he's a kind of random, unassuming sort of guy. Without spoiling the story for you, he simply "goes away" in the end. I won't tell you how.
I find this story extremely interesting. The protagonist is so anonymous. That is what I think his main characteristic is: anonymity. This is so interesting when one considers that specificity of character, setting, and time are what some would say defines the "novelistic" style. Sure, this is a short story, but it's still written in the "novelistic" or "realistic" style, if you will.
The first story from this anthology that I looked at is titled "The Grave," and it relates the story of a soldier in World War I who was buried alive and who tries to stay alive; and the main aesthetic effect of that story is confusion. He didn't know anything: was he going to be rescued? How many days had passed? Was the battle still raging?
Here you have a story where a character shows up, he's shrouded in mystery, and he disappears. And so, it's similar to the previous story in that the thematic preoccupation is "cognition" or "knowledge". The story depicts a protagonist who knows nothing; in the second story, we, as readers, know nothing.
I'm seeing a thematic preoccupation in Weird Tales with the unknown. Could these stories be thought of as thematically focused on unknowns?
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 22)
An update: I've painstakingly transcribed 8 pages and I'm at precisely 9228 words. That's approximately 1150 words per page! I don't know what I was thinking, typing this up the way I did.
 |
| 8 fulls pages of 30 transcribed; 9228 words |
I don't know why I'm fascinated with the manuscript the way I am. But, here's another picture of it. Along with my Atlantean sword.
Please know that the Rogue would never use anything like the Atlantean sword.
Anyhow, here's serial 21!
In sober voices Brol and Taous related to the Rogue was had happened. Details were filled in by an occasional merchant who squeaked in animated fashion, and Rew threw in a comment every now and again. Occasionally even Paj chirped out a comment, though he still seemed quite distraught and spent most of the time, his hands wrapped around his knees, rocking and muttering to himself in the corner of the tent. And here was their story, as the Rogue pieced it together.
Perhaps an hour after the Rogue left on Brol's horse, the merchants had a good fire going and were brewing their blackroot and tea and preparing to cook the very last of their salted meat that they had rationed to this point. The stars had come out, and Paj--a cartographer and astronomer--was pressed by the terrible notion that the constellations looked strange and unfamiliar to him. He wasn't able to confirm his suspicions and fears with the others as a thick fog rolled in that becloaked sky, camp, and distant canyon.
The merchants were not concerned, though one or two of the more suspicious young among them muttered some misgivings. In the meantime, the night air had cooled down and this quickened them, made them feel somewhat hopeful. They had no plans to go anywhere that night and they were sure the sun's light would burn away the fog in the morning. The idea that they were approaching swampy lands disturbed them (where did this fog come from, if not a bog or swamp as nearby); but Brol chastised them and led them all in a prayer to their hearthfather god. This seemed to calm them.
All was fine until the first disappearance was noted.
Paj was playing a tiny woodflute on the margins of the camp shrouded in fog, when he heard the faint voice of one of his comrade's calling. Screaming?
Not thinking of the sound as anything threatening, he put away his pipe and moved toward it. A great gust of wind came, lifting the fog like a certain for but a moment. And so, poor Paj got the first glimpse of them.
Standing over one of his comrades, its pointy chin dripping gore, was one of those beasts. It was quickly flanked by two more who flew out of the darkness--claws outstretched, veiny wings unfurled, eyes like glimmering jewels. They grinned at him, revealing their knife-like teeth; and Paj, horrified, screamed and screamed to the highest heights his lungs could carry him, and turned and ran back to the center of the camp.
The Best of Weird Tales in 1923: Orville R. Emerson's "The Grave"
Gods, I would have loved if they had done the entire series. Alas. Nevertheless, I've very greatful for this anthology, of which I read the first two stories and extremely enjoyed them. In this blog post I want to tell you about the first story, a story titled, "The Grave" by Orville R. Emerson. If you don't recognize this name, don't worry. I don't either. I did some google searches for him, and found nothing. Nothing whatsoever (aside froma few passing references to this anthology and this *one* story in Weird Tales. I don't know why, but I find his anonymity intriguing.
Anyhow, what's this story about? Well, it takes place during "the Great War," and it is ostensibly written as the memoir of a German soldier who has been trapped in a underground fortress after it has been bombarded by allied rail guns. The story relates his struggles to survive: organizing supplies, rationing food, digging his way out, etc.. It's kind of a demented Robinson Crusoe, if you will. I won't give away the end because I think you should buy the anthology (it's a small press! c'mon!) and read it. But I what to reflect on some really interesting thematic issues.
Confusion and ignorance. The protagonist spends that vast majority of the time attempting to understand his situation. He thinks he will be relieved after the battle is over. He thinks one of the sides will stop to help the soldiers captured in the destroyed fortress. And so he's optimistic. After a while he starts second guessing himself. He then starts trying to keep track of the day and time, but can't, considering he's closed off from the world. And so, he doesn't know how long, i.e. how many hours, weeks, days, months he's been underground. Eventually he starts falling in and out of sleep and starts imagining that he's doing things he doesn't remember. For example, he'll committ to only eating so much of his rations; and, he'll wake up, and more rations are gone. He wonders, did he do this in my sleep?
Historical resonance. Considering this story was written in 1923, a time when the horrors of World War I were no doubt still lingering in the "cultural imagination" in the states, I think there is some intense "allegorical resonance" here. You have a protagonist extremely confused, hearing bombing all around him, struggling with rations, trying to say sane. Is it useful to think of him as a representing of a kind of universal experience of modernity at that time?
Anyhow. I wanted to share this story with particularly and this anthology with you generally. I hope to review more in the future.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 21)
***
In a puddle of coagulating blood lay the small, red corpse of a mysterious creature the Rogue had not seen before. It's body was the size of a small dog or lamb. It was shaped by a particularly lanky and long-armed human, only its ribs were far more abundant, pronounced, and sharp. It's skin was a shimmering crimson red and it appeared to be stretched taut over sinewy flesh. From the shoulders branched out bat-like and leathery wings that were twice the length wide as the body was long. The wings were of thin, veiny skin, although one wing was ripped and patchy and shriveled. The most disturbing aspect of the creature, however, was its tiny face. The nose was long and pointed like the poniard. The cheekbones were high and sharp; its eyesholes were deep and the bones angled in. The eyes--which were wide open in death--were a bright green and the irises of the eyeballs were slitted like a cat's. The chin was nearly as pointy as the nose: long, curving, sharp. Finally, the mouth, which gaped open in death, was filled with hundreds of curving, knife-like teeth set in tight, black gums. The teeth were caked in greenish, yellow grime, and a long, forked and red tongue lolled from the black mouth.
"Behold!" Brol said. "You see that our comrade Rew should be forgiven his enthusiastic thought not so fanciful characterization! I! I have seen such creatures depicted in the grimoires once shelved in Spiral Towers! And always. Always! Those are illustrations of demons!"
Brol looked at the Rogue and narrowed his eyes. A kind of challenge lingered there.
The gruesome sight of the red corpse lying on the ground stirred revulsion in the Rogue. His stomach lurched. But, taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. A silence fell about the camp as the merchants waited for his reaction. The Rogue looked to Brol, who now held a bloody rag to his wounded eye, and trembled, and wheezed. Obviously the doubt of the Rogue had hurt him. Thus the Rogue felt shame, for he had doubted the merchant. He had thought of Brol as a fat, city-dweller; and he had expected to see that he had killed a coyote or wolf pup, at most.
Though he did not know what it was, the Rogue now desired to know more of how the creature came upon them.
"You say a group of such as these came and killed--or dragged off!--three of us! And that you, good master, have killed one of them! Please! Tell me everything! I've a few things to tell myself, of where I went and what I found in the canyon. But. Please! Inform me of all that transpired after I left last you last eve first!"
"Indeed," said Brol, spitting, throwing aside his rag. He turned to return to his tent. "Tauos! Boil water, by the gods! Everyone else! Return to your tents!"
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 19)
***
Paj lay groveling in the dirt clutching his hair and tear-streamed face. In spite of his efforts, the Rogue could get no more information out of him.Shoving past him, he moved further into the camp, past the firepit and into the large, red pavilion that he knew to be Brol's, the leader of the merchants. When he threw back the flap and strode in, he saw Brol, sitting on a stool, holding a bloody rag to his face, which was wounded; a grisly gash ran the length of his cheek. One of his eyes had been removed and a cheek now hung in bloody tatters.
Brol was flanked by two of his lieutenant's, men of reason and stability who the Rogue respected. Their names were Rew and Tauos. They were only a few years younger than the venerable Brol.
Outside the Rogue could hear the other merchants mustering. Word of his return had been announced by Paj's blubberings, and the other merchants were gathering around their leader's tent to see what was to be done about their dire circumstances.
"It's good to see that you live, young one!" Brol laughed, rising, throwing aside his bloody rag and approaching the Rogue, his horrible wound shiny in the light that shone into the tent. "We assumed those red-skinned beasts made a quick meal of you!" He embraced the Rogue like a father embracing a son. The Rogue recoiled ever so slightly, but relaxed after a bit. He waited until Brol relented and backed away.
"W-w-w-hat beasts?" he stammered, frustrated by his ignorance. "What happened? What happened to your face?"
One of the other merchants in the room, Tauos, rose up and unfurled his turban. He cursed and spat. "Isn't it obvious? After you left, a few hours into the night, we were attacked!" Tauos said. He took Brol by the arm and led him back to his wicker stool. "Sit down, you scoundrel!" he spat.
Brol began to protest, but Tauos shoved him down. Brol then grumbled inaudibly to himself while he put another rag to his wound.
The Rogue couldn't help but chuckle. Brol's stubbornness amused him. Although he assumed these merchants to be city bred softlings, he was surprised to see one--their leader, of course--acting like a fighting-man. But the Rogue needed to know what happened.
"Who or what attacked you?" the Rogue asked again.
He assumed it was some aggressive or surly band of mountain men, or bandits who haunted the scrubs that lied outside of the power of Tabun Stoh and its armies. And so, he was surprised when all three of the merchant's faces grew somber and pale. A silence draped itself over them. For a while it lingered. Eventually, the third merchant, Rew, spoke:
"Demons," he said, spitting on the ground. "An entire roost of demons attacked us last night."
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 18)
***
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| Pages transcribed: 6 ; wordcount: 7158 |
Although he could not speak their language, he was able to communicate with them, after a fashion. Their leader, the son of the graybeard--his name was Ah'gatar--was very intelligent and understood the Rogue's non-verbal signs with no some skill. Through various hand gestures, facial expressions, and noises, he told the wolf-cloak warrior that the merchants might be threatened by such an a war party as they seemed to be. The Rogue suggested that the five spear wielding warriors should stay back and allow him to approach his comrades alone.
The wolf-cloak seemed to assent, and the warriors, shrugging, sat down on rocks and began chattering away, passing their liquor filled bladders back and forth.
The sun was at full height when the Rogue strode into the camp. He was greeted by one of the younger merchants, by the name of Pej. This one's face was pale and his eyes were wide with fright, bloodshot, and trembling insanely.
"Thank Evyat you've returned!" he said, proclaiming the name of one of the many gods of Tabun Stoh. He fell to ground and grasped the Rogue by the calves. "They killed three of us! The monsters! I watched the entire horrible display, had to listen to their gargling screams as they were dragged into the darkness! All I found were their still-steaming innards strewn about!"
The Rogue, horrified and disgusted by the outburst and Pej's lack of composure, recoiled with a hiss. Reflexively, his hand went to his blade.
"Back away, Paj!" the Rogue shouted above the man's blatherings. "Give me room and silence, and then tell me the story like a sane-person, you fear-drunken fool!"
Friday, January 27, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 17)
Here is serial 17 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
The Rogue folded his hands, bowed his head, and touched his forehead. "Never! Not at all! To pay your hospitality back with such an unkindness would be not be human."
"There are some spell-binders from your city who would kill and betray to delve into the ruins of our ancestors," the graybeard returned. "I trust you are honest merchants and fighting men fleeing a tyrant, as you say you are, and not spell binders masquerading in the cloaks of humility. If you are, that would be unfortunate."
"Indeed," the Rogue said, his shame stirred in spite of his innocence. "Indeed, we flee the very kind of person you describe. It is said the tyrant of Tabun-Stoh is a sorcerer."
The old graybeard gazed at him for a moment and the intensity of his gaze disturbed the Rogue. And then the graybeard smiled, patted the Rogue on his back with force, and walked with him to the mustered warriors with the aid of his staff. "Wonderful!" the graybeard said. "If you are who you say you are--honest folk fleeing the tyranny of dark magic--then we count ourselves your friends. We rarely get visitors here, and experience your arrival as a source of excitement; but, you must understand, you make us anxious as well. When meeting strangers they are rarely anything but friends or enemies."
The Rogue recognized the words the old graybeard had just spoke; they were an aphorism that appeared in a philosophical dialogue of Trayat of Cohrus, an ancient poet-philosopher who had lived long ago and far, far away. This old graybeard was indeed well learned.
"You know the philosophies of Trayat!" exclaimed the Rogue, his love of the ancient literature overtaking his social composure.
"I know him well," said the graybeard gravely. He said nothing further.
They waited a bit longer while more soldiers mustered around them. Eventually a group of spears were gathered. The old man shouted an order to five of the warriors, who hailed him with the wave of their spears. Turning to the Rogue, the old graybeard said, "Spend this day looking for your comrades. And if you are lucky, bring them to us tonight. We will have a celebration in their honor. Together we'll share stories, enjoy food, and drink, and exchange secrets--if you have any to share. And, perhaps, after the celebrations, over a pipe of something, we might discuss Trayat together."
The Rogue could not help but smile. The old graybeard patted him on the back once more. "You have met who I consider my daughter. Now. Meet my son!" He then spoke to the warrior who wore the wolf-cloak, and he came over to them. "He doesn't speak your tongue. He isn't as fast a learner as my daughter. He is, however, our most celebrated warrior and tracker, and if you entourage are withing a day, then he will no doubt bring you to them."
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 16)
Here is serial 16 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
It was a cold, gray morning. Into the Rogue's hand a particularly young villager--wearing a cloak woven with crudely flattened plates of what appeared to be metal--thrust a ceramic canteen of something very warm. It steamed in the cool of the morning. It was obviously liquor of some sort--perhaps a mulled wine--for it burned and made the Rogue's insides feel warm as it went down. He grunted his thanks to the young man as they began walking to the village center.
There it was swarming with beautiful women and children of every size and age. The Rogue glimpsed young Asha among them, sitting on a roof, her bare feet dangling over the side. She watched the Rogue as he approached with the group of warriors and grinned when he nodded to her.
The graybeard was squatting near a fire, warming his hands. He was flanked by two other warriors who looked old and grizzled and sour, and their faces were scarred. As the Rogue came closer, the old man stood, took up his staff, and grinned.
"And you survived the night!" he exclaimed gustily.
The Rogue, however, was slightly distracted, and so the words the graybeard said did not register with him completely. When he came into the village the night before he did not see the peculiar place where these people had built their village-town.
High, high up on the section the canyon walls upon which their village was nestled were ruins built of the same black stone of the canyon. These ruins were built into the very wall of the canyon quarry that no doubt furnished the thick, black brick that composed it. Of these ruins's architectural style, the Rogue knew nothing, in spite of his great knowledge in the area and his old age. Worn smooth by years and years of wind and sand-blasts, the rock were smooth and sturdy, but the manner of construction--constituted of interlocking bricks of various sizes and arches with beautifully carved keystones--seemed far beyond the skill of these people. And there was an evil, "fang-like" quality to the ruins, which seemed to bulge and curve like so many fangs out of a mouth. They also suggested to the rogue the rib-cage of some dead and decayed god.
The graybeard saw the Rogue looking at the ruins, perceived his surprise and horror, and could not help but grin: "Yes, we live in the shadow of a great empire," he said. "The ruins are forbidden to us, and to you. We guard them. We welcome your friends, if you find them, but know this: we jealously guard those black-stone piles. We would be deadly offended if you attempted to violate them."
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 15)
Here is serial 15 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
The Rogue finished his meal and felt satisfied when the girl took his wastes away. She tossed the dregs out of the door and scrubbed his plate with hot water, saying nothing. And then she went to leave. As she turned to go, a realization dawned in the Rogue's mind: "I do not know your name, little one," he said timidly. He fell idly into a pile of cushions and furs. "Gods! It is wonderful to be fed and warm and to speak in a language that is understood! To come to know strangers!"
The girl chuckled lightly. But following quickly upon this she frowned gravely and sighed. "Call me Asha, though that is not my name."
The Rogue nodded, and she left.
He sat there for moment, listening to the fire crackling, contemplating her parting words.
He then began to fall asleep, having been made drowsy by the delicious food and the warmth of the fire. Just before the darkness took him--after he gripped his blade firmly to his chest--he thought of his companions, shivering in the cold of their tents, subsisting on bitter-root tea and trail bread. He could not help a merciless smile from spanning his lips.
He awoke to the murmuring voices of about three of the villager-men. Pale light rays slanted in through some tiny window slits had had not noticed during the night. He was not completely sure of his safety, and so he pulled his blade close, ready to strike if he needed to.
His eyes were half open when the cloth at the portal of his dwelling place was thrown aside, and he perceived the man from the previous, the man wearing the wolf cloak. He held a spear in his hand, but it was not ready for battle.
He woke the Rogue up with a clacking noise, and stood there, casually leaning on his spear. He motioned to the door flap where the rogue saw mustered three other warriors with spears and furs. The Rogue assumed they were ready for him to go and find his friends, but he was concerned that there were none in this party who he could communicate with. Throwing on his leather jerkin, buckling it rapidly, and then securing his curving dagger, he rose to meet them.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 14)
Here is serial 14 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
When he let the girl up, she bounded to her feet and ran to the guards and lowered their spears with her hands. They all began to talk excitedly to each other in their language, and yet, it did not matter, for the Rogue could not understand their language at all. This gave way to loud speaking and finally shouting. It seemed to the Rogue that the girl was defending him against the guards, and for this he was ashamed. Eventually, shoving and shouting, she removed the spearmen from the tent, who scowled at the Rogue as they left. She then turned to face him.
"I'm sorry," he said, bowing his head, "My reaction was not merited. Your men had a right to be concerned, to assume I aimed to cause you harm."
"Such an apology is unneeded," she said, smiling, "I'm too young to realize that some men cannot be accosted as I did you. There is such a thing as battle reflexes, and this was my first acquaintance with them. Please. Accept my apology. But please--do not speak of our god. It's too horrible a subject for me."
This stirred the Rogue's curiosity, but he had no option but to acquiesce. Why was she so reluctant to discuss her god?
Feeling no little amount of shame for attacking the girl as he did, he quietly submitted to her. He sat down and she approached him with a clay bowl filled with steaming water she had poured from her kettle. They did not speak as she dabbed his wound with a scrap-rag soaked in the same tea he had been drinking. After a few moments, she finished, and, going to the door, called for her folk to bring him food.
The two spearmen, who only a few moments ago threatened the Rogue, entered then, and they bore fruit and grains and a small joint of meat cooked in wine. By this hour the Rogue was voraciously hungry, and so he bolted his food with a great aggression and for a moment forgot the girl, who was nearby, lying on her belly, gazing on him with a distant look in her shimmering eyes.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 13)
Here is serial 13 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
"An herb that heals the body. My people have known the secret of it for many years. It's called achras, and it was given to us by our god."
Directly after she said this, she closed her eyes, sighed, made a strange sign over her body--a kind of blessing gesture--and then, sighing again, she placed the palms of her hands to her eyes and rubbed. A great weight seemed to be upon her.
"Your god must be loving, indeed, and wise, to give such gifts," the Rogue said, sipping the last of his tea. He did feel rejuventated and his wounded arm tingled. He looked at the wound: though it gave forth an odorous puss and fizzed and bubbled, the feeling was strangely pleasant. This amazed him. "I would utter a prayer of thanks to your god, if I knew his name!" the Rogue said earnestly.
"Do not speak of HIM!" the girl said. She strode over to the Rogue and, covering his mouth with her hand, hissed for him to cease his speech. The Rogue, however, was a trained fighting-man, and, as she startled him, he reacted with instincts. Believing himself to be attacked, he grabbed the girl's wrist, spun her around, and pinned her, face down, onto the be-carpeted floor of the room. To her back he held the point of his wickedly curved blade. He drew a pearl of red blood from her bare back.
"No, no, no!" she shouted, her fear causing her voice to tremble. "Ix, ix azutha!" she shouted in her language.
Presently two strong lads ran into the tent, spears in hand, and shouted at the Rogue, who stood over the prostrated girl gripping his naked blade. They brandished their spears menacingly, and, foam flecking their mouths, they threw what were obviously curses at him.
The girl, however, shouted over them. The Rogue, whose sense had been lost to the battle-lust, snapped back into consciousness. When he realized what he was doing, where his instincts had brought him, he let his dagger fall to the ground. He let the girl loose and held up his hands.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 12)
Here is serial 12 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
 |
| In spite of it being in the middle of the night, everything here was brightly lit. |
The young girl held back the cloth that served as the portal door and nodded with no smile, "Go on," she said, "nothing is inside but fire to warm the water I need to clean your wounded arm."
The Rogue was surprised by her words. "You speak the language of Tabun Stoh!" he said. "Wonderful! I was afraid my conversation would be limited to your grandfather, young one!"
He entered, followed by her, into the hut.
"Oh, no," she said. "He taught me. He's a very wise man, educated in many languages. I understand your prejudices and expectations, considering how we live, which must seem a barbarous way to one from the city."
The Rogue said nothing. He was too distracted by the interior of the hut, which was clean and well organized. It was lit by a central fire that was ventilated by a smoke-stained hole in the roof. The floor was covered in many layers of furs; and there were what appeared to be cushions of woven cloth stuffed with wool. And the hut smelled wonderfully; some dried spices, hanging from supporting rafters, fragranted the place.
The young girl smiled and walked over to the fire-pit. Out of the various furs she pulled a bronze tea-urn, which she hung over the flames. Into it she poured a water out of a skin that had been hanging from a hook. In a few moments she had brewed a drink, a kind of root. She poured the rogue some, served it in a clay cup, and when he drank it it tasted bitter and vaguely sweet. It seemed to quicken his mind, which had been dulled from the cold night. In a few moments the colors in the room seemed more pronounced. The girl giggled when he held his hand before him and looked at it with great curiosity in his face.
"The drink you've brewed--it's powerful. What is it?"
The girl smiled.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 11)
As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
They graybeard climbed a kind of stone stump and announced in a loud voice something in their strange language, and then the village plaza began to empty of folk. The women who were weaving left their work unfinished, grabbed their children, and disappeared--looks of resent hanging about their faces--into their houses.
The men began to follow them, leaving the Rogue and the old graybeard in the empty plaza alone. The ones who were armed left their weapons at their portals when they went inside. And then, they were alone.
It was eerie for the Rogue, standing there in the flickering light of those strange, smoking torches, not speaking to the old man who had on his face the vague suggestion of a grin.
A moment later, out of the darkness, a beautiful, dark-haired female came up to the old man and the Rogue. She was young, barely a woman, and--in spite of the apparent custom of her tribe--she had long black hair. Her eyes, however, were painted black like the other women.
In spite of her longer hair, there were other differences about her. On her head she wore a circlet of iron, which appeared to be fashioned in the likeness of a crown of ivy. There were settings for gems, but the gems had obviously been removed. If the gems had been present, the Rogue thought, it would have been a beautiful piece of jewelry indeed. As it was, it was somewhat dull. And yet, the Rogue admitted to himself, this young one needed no jewelry to beautify her.
The old man barked an order at the girl, who nodded and answered him; but she did not hide what was obviously the resentment she felt in regards to the old man's orders. It shown clearly on the sharp features of her face in spite of her efforts to hide it. "I leave you with my granddaughter. I am as a father to her, for she has no parents else. She will properly tend to your wound. I've told her to see that you're made as comfortable as we can make you." He rubbed his brow and stroked his beard. "And so I leave you, ranger, rogue--whatever you are. I'm weary. This night has been exerting. I must sleep. Tomorrow, after you've rested and ate, we will go and fetch your comrades." The Rogue touched his head and bowed.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 10)
I've reached serial 10 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants! That's a lot of boring transcribing! I didn't realize how many words I was getting on each page.
Here are some numbers:
Word's transcribed thus far: 3984 words.
Manuscript pages transcribed: 3.5
Average words per manuscript page: 1143 words.
Updated anticipated length of the entire novel: 34290 words
As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
With a nod three of the men accompanying the graybeard came forward and began probing the Rogue's wound. After a simple poultice was prepared, they set off together in the direction from which the crowd had originally came.
As they moved, the more curious and youthful of them stole glances of the Rogue, smiled, and began whispering among themselves. This the Rogue ignored, though it irritated him. His dark past had made him come to hate being an amusement, a curiosity. Were these but patronizing smiles for a ranger who had been bested by a wildland that they flourished in? He did not know.
Later, rolling his eyes skillfully, the Rogue caught some of them behaving in a way that stirred his suspicions: some of them glanced nervously at the night sky. The Rogue was adept at reading subtle body language, and yet, he could not understand their anxiety.
 |
| The Graybeard |
The graybeard leader was followed by torch-bearers and the man who was wearing the wolf-cloak. It concerned the Rogue that wolf-cloak had a dark expression lingering on his face. He still did not know what the man had attempted to tell him.
The Rogue eventually arrived to the village of these people. Their houses were built on a flat patch of grass, shorn close by the appetite of grazing sheep. The houses were made of bent reed smeared with clay and mud and looked quite cozy. The roofs of the houses--which we made out of thick, bundles of grass--looked liked the mops of hair of some boys the Rogue had known. Each house had a small, arched portal that was covered by a piece of crudely woven cloth. And above each door, it seemed, was a small, goatish skull. Perhaps a god they worshipped?, the Rogue wondered.
The village was laid in a three-ringed circle, the center of which was a bare earthen plaza. It was about a hundred feet from the rider's edges; the black water of that river flowed softly here. Accompanied by that gang, the Rogue came into the central plaza.
In spite of it being in the middle of the night, everything here was brightly lit by torch poles and bowls of oil similar to the one that the Rogue had seen when first he countered the two guards. And like that one, these gave off the same, greasy smoke as before, which seemed to linger in the air here, making a kind of smoky "roof" that almost shielded the millions of burning stars overhead.
And the plaza was not empty: women and children were here, huddling together, talking, playing, gossiping and joking. And there was a firepit in the very center of things, ringed by stacked bricks. Sitting around the firepit there were more women--beautiful women, young and old--who seemed to be weaving baskets out of pale grass. To the Rogue--who had been traveling with sinewy and bearded merchants for weeks now--these were indeed beautiful women, a wonderful surprise to stumble upon in the night. The hair on their heads, like their men, was shaved close, and their eyes were also darkly painted, although their eyes were black. To the Rogue their bodies, in spite of being wrapped in indelicate furs, were ripe and lovely. They seemed ghostly to the Rogue, seemed to wear the night with grace.
Upon the arrival of their leader, their men, and, of course, the Rogue, some of the women were startled, squeaked, and ran for their houses, leaving their work. Others stood tall, pushed their children behind them, and gazed at the Rogue with clenched jaws and trembling eyes.
These courageous ones appeared the more beautiful to the Rogue, who, using a guile he had honed over many years, stole quick glances of their forms to his pleasure: their skin, glazed with oil, glistened beautifully in the flickering light of the firepit and the torches.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 9)
Here is serial 9 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. And here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
***
When the old graybeard spoke, however, some of the Rogue's fears were allayed. He spoke in the language of the Tabuns.
"We will not harm you, ranger," the graybeard said. His pronunciation was slightly flawed. It was an odd accent, vaguely familiar to the the Rogue. Something about it suggested the aristocratic and the archaic. In spite of this, the graybeard was certainly understandable.
 |
| In the globe of light stood two figures |
The old graybeard chuckled to himself. "We shall see, ranger. We do not think with fondness of the Tabunians and their great city to the west, though we know of it. Long ago they sought us out for taxes and attempted to make us fight in a war we did not care about against an enemy we did not know. These we killed with spears and arrows, and, surely, their skeletons and grinning skulls are still being bleached out in the scrub beyond. And so, if you come with the idea of taxes or war in your mind, consider their fate a warning."
The Rogue appreciated the old man's commentary. He, too, resented the arrogance so oft displayed by the city-dwellers he had known, by the empire-builders to the west who seemed to believe that all evil was the result of free will, and who never knew a law they did not love. The old graybeard had endeared himself to the Rogue.
"Gods, no!" the Rogue laughed. "We flee that accursed city for those very same reasons. There is a man in Tabun Stoh who has put himself above all others, who would deign place the copper coronet of a king on his brow."
The old man smiled. In his ear his advisors whispered, and then his smile became a grim frown.
"You speak beautifully," he said. He massaged his brow. "It is a rare thing for my people to entertain guests, but, if you allow us--man who ranges from Tabun Stoh--we will give you to our healers to clean your wounds and to feed you, body and eternal soul. This is in accordance with our ancient law, and though it is a brief but rigid law, it binds us." He spoke in his language to his advisors. One stalked away, calling out orders, and was followed by some of the crowd. "We would have your name, if you give it freely," the graybeard said.
"I do not have one," the Rogue said.
The old man's eyes grew wide. He looked to his advisers and whispered to them. After they heard what the old man said, their eyes grew wide as well. They all stared at the Rogue. He felt the heat of their gaze.
The end the horrendous silence and the anxiety caused by their gazes, the Rogue averted his eyes. He spoke these words: "I would be honored to accept your hospitality, but my mind is bothered by the thought of my comrades--there are thirteen of them. I would sleep in the safety of your village tonight, in any beds you offer; and yet--I beg you to bring the sight of my companions to my eyes."
The old man assented.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 8)
Here is serial 8 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. And here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
Moments later the Rogue saw a crowd appear around a bend in the canyon. It was led by the figure wearing the bone-bead necklaces. It consisted of about thirty men, all wearing furs, all with their eyes painted red. Half of them had spears. The other half wielded crudely forged short-blades that seemed to the Rogue to be very archaic. With them were two gray wolves that were obviously domesticated. But, considering their growling and aggressive demeanor, the Rogue assumed they were no less deadly than their wild cousins.
The men of the crowd were of varying ages, but there was one among them who, unlike the rest, had a long, grey beard that was braided with ornaments, and he was obviously ancient.
As they all approached it became obvious to the Rogue this ancient one was their leader. Bone-bead spoke to him feverishly as they approached in their chittering language. When the crowd arrived to where the Rogue sat guarded, the spearman who wore the wolf-cloak shielded his eyes from the old graybeard. He even knelt on the ground in a gesture of deference. The Rogue, acknowledging this telling show of respect, emulated him, and made a show of looking away and shielding his eyes.
"Oh, most honorable wise man!" the Rogue stated, altering the tone of his voice to arouse the most empathy. "I'm a member of a waylaid group of merchants from the city of Tabun-Stoh to the east. We are road-wearied and in need of your hospitality and mercy. The wound I bear was of my own doing! No violence did I suffer at the hand of your men. Nor did they suffer any at mine. I stumbled down into your canyon after I was set upon by a wild animal--a wolf, I think. I'm lost! I'm at your mercy!"
Most of the men accompanying the graybeard were intrigued by the Rogue. To some extent they understood the Rogue's pitiful whinings, for they grinned at him. The youngest of the crowd were struck by the sight of the Rogue and let their mouths hang open. These ones had eyes wide with awe.
It must be admitted at this point that the Rogue was somewhat nervous. He was not well read himself, and so he could not identify this tribe of wild folk from any other. But he had been the companion of many educated men over his many years, and so he knew that there were some tribes in this region--ancient races of long dead empires now swallowed by dust--who were worshipers of gruesome gods; who practiced weird rites under the skull-like moons; who perpetuated perverted customs, interbred with gibbering demons, and even ate quivering human flesh and drank hot, human blood.
For a moment the idea that he had put himself at the mercy of such a tribe crossed his mind. And so, he reached into the folds of his cloak and allowed his finger to caress the pommel of his bespelled blade for comfort.
But it must be said that the Rogue enjoyed (and sometimes suffered from) a strangely accurate intuition when it came to assessing humans. Using what seemed like an extra sensory apparatus, he could usually interpret accurately if this person was dangerous, or if that person was safe. Somewhere deep inside him, the Rogue knew that those first two spearmen who he had encountered were not intrinsically dangerous. He was a stranger to them, and therefore the Rogue knew he could have easily stirred them to hostility. And yet--he did not perceive in them anything in excess of the usual cruelty that was inherent in humankind.
Rarely was his intuition wrong. And yet, in spite of its accuracy, it had been in the past. When it had been, blood had been spilt. He hoped it was not one of those times.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 7)
Here is serial 7 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. And here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants
Update: I've transcribed the second page of this 30-page manuscript. That's 28 more pages to go. Word count thus far: 2119. We're probably looking more at 32,000 words for the complete story.
At first the two men were startled. They chittered back and forth and brandished their bronze-tipped spears menacingly. But when they saw the blood, when they beheld the powerful subtleties of the Rogue's body expressions--his posture, his manner of walking, his facial expression, his empty hands--their spears lowered. A lesser actor would probably have been skewered on the spot.
Of the two figures, the one wearing the wolf-cloak was notably reluctant, however. He leaned on his spear and stayed back as his companion moved forward, timidly, cautiously, but without obvious hostility. This one seemed to curious to see who or what had interrupted his drinking party.
Although he was sure he could not speak their tongue, the Rogue implored of them, "Please! I mean no harm! I range through this wildland with folk of the city of Tabun Stoh! We pass through this land and are in need of rest and hospitality! We have gold and other ways of paying! Trinkets! Baubles of civilization! Blankets! Steel!"
In response to these words, the figure wearing the bone-bead necklaces--the curious one, that is--revealed his surprise when his eyes grew wide. The word "steel" seemed to stir him.
He jumped back, leveled his spear at the Rogue, and shouted to his wolf-cloaked companion, "Balah! Ugot Ba-lah!"
"Ba-lah!" returned wolf-cloak, in a hissing sort of speech. He obviously did not like what the one wearing the bone-bead necklaces had suggested.
Bone-bead stamped his bare foot. He then ran off into the darkness, letting his spear clatter to the ground.
The wolf-cloaked one lingered. He approached the Rogue with his spear leveled, motioned for him to do something. An astute observer, the keen intellect of the Rogue quickly realized what the wolf-cloak wanted him to do: to sit, with his hands in clear sight. This was a routine and nearly universal protocol as far as the military was concerned; wolf-cloak was within his rights to make such a request. Feeling confident in his fighting abilities and eager to befriend wolf-cloak and his people on the merchants's behalf, the Rogue complied. He knelt down, his hands held before him. He took comfort in knowing his hilt-less dagger was stowed safely away in his belt, beneath his tunic.
Afterward, wolf-cloak knelt down next to the Rogue and whispered something to him the Rogue did not understand. When the Rogue did not relply, wolf-cloak grimaced, spit on the ground with obvious disgust, and backed away.
Was wolf-cloak threatening him? The look in his eyes was all the Rogue needed for confirmation.
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